De Finibus
by Andi Horton
Summary: Written ages ago for an SD 1 challenge, set in my 'Sackville' universe right after Smoke Screen. Shortly after coming home with baby William, Sydney starts to realise that something is horribly wrong.


De Finibus

0O0O0O0O0

_Nor again is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain, but because occasionally circumstances occur in which toil and pain can procure him some great pleasure._

trans. from Cicero's _De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum_ (The Extremes of Good and Evil)

0O0O0O0O0

I'm glowing when we get home; literally glowing, I'm sure. My face must be shining with the light of a thousand suns, and really, how could it not be? I'm holding my son. William Jonathan Vaughn is two days old, and to all appearances happy, healthy and howling his wrinkled little head off.

It's mid-June, and the weather is accordingly glorious. The sun beams down on us with true moderation, just warm and golden enough to make me feel almost inexplicably giddy. Mike is beside me, his hand under my elbow, and my parents, never ones to be left out of the action, are behind us both. Emily is balanced in her grandfather's arms and gazing around, wide-eyed and wondering at the people who have gathered to meet us.

"Oh, he's just perfect!" Lisa gushes, bending over our new addition and brushing a fingertip over his tiny nub of a nose. William quiets long enough to suck in another lungful of air, and we come to a stop in front of our house so everyone can gather around and admire him.

People from our church, neighbourhood and workplaces are all present and accounted for, and they are all eager to get a look at our boy. Forty-eight hours old and already he apparently resembles in equal parts his parents, grandparents and sister. I don't see it, myself, but I let them say so all the same; this is his moment, after all. It's only when Emily starts to fuss under the steadily increasing heat of the noonday sun, and Mom clears her throat pointedly, that they have the grace to notice the time. They all immediately remember things they have planned to do, and fade away into the background, leaving us to get everybody inside and as settled as we can hope to be with a newborn in the mixture.

"Can I get anybody anything?" Mom wants to know, and we all accept a variety of cold drinks while Mike goes to fiddle with the air conditioning and get it acclimatised to the needs of people just in from the heat. I take William upstairs to the bassinet we prepared for him weeks before and settle him down to nap before rejoining everybody, and settling in to pass the afternoon just chatting together.

I'm not sure at what point, exactly, the worry begins to set in; I think somewhere between Mom's scathing comment about my father's last attempt to make meatloaf and Emily's brief foray into the dustbin in the little computer room that serves as both Mike's and my home office. I do know that by the time Dad suggests he go and pick us up something for supper, I'm racked with an anxiety I can't name, knowing only that it concerns the baby.

No sooner Dad gone off in the car to pick us up some burgers than I bolt from the living room and take the stairs two at a time, desperate to check on William. When I arrive in our bedroom, though, the little white bassinet is the image of serenity itself, and William, flat on his back with his arms splayed wide, wearing nothing but his diaper and the little onesie Mom bought him yesterday, is slumbering without a care in the world. His breathing is deep, steady and even, but that does nothing to calm my heart, and I find my knees are so shaky I have to sit down on the floor right there beside the bassinet before I fall down. It's almost five minutes more before the remnants of terror subside, and I struggle to my feet, puzzled at myself.

Another peek at William confirms that he's as fine as ever, so, a little shaken but largely relieved, I wander back downstairs where Dad is just getting in the door with the burgers and Archie, the massive, doglike thing I told him he could keep just two days ago. Archie spent the night at the vet's getting his ribs taped and leg bound up, but now he looks as fit as he ever did, minus a few white bandages, and except for a slight hobble he seems as good as new. He's certainly interested enough in the food Dad is holding, so Mom takes the paper bags out to the kitchen while Dad convinces his new pet to follow him into the living room and settle down at his feet.

"How do you do that?" Mike gapes in open admiration. "He just listens to you!"

"He'd be crazy not to," I roll my eyes, "Dad's even bigger than Archie."

A few more jokes follow in a similar vein, and by the time Mom reappears with all of our food (arranged on plates so beautifully that it doesn't even feel like takeout) I've almost entirely forgotten the bizarre little episode of half an hour before. I set up Emily's high chair in the doorway, giving her a dish of Cheerios so she doesn't feel left out, and Mike sets up TV trays so we can settle down to a sort of impromptu picnic as the house cools off and we try to converse like normal people.

"It got hot very fast, didn't it?" Mom marvels, sampling a French fry with a delicacy I secretly envy. "Do you know what the forecast is for the rest of this month? That seemed warm for June."

We confess ignorance as to what lies in store but it doesn't seem to upset her a lot, since she is already making faces at Emily, who forgets her Cheerios in favour of the floor show and sits, enthralled, watching her Grandma.

We in turn are so enchanted by Emily's amusement that we pay more attention to her than we do to our food, which is probably how I get careless enough to tilt my burger too far, dumping a good portion of its condiments onto my shirt front. I blink down at the gory mess, ketchup, mustard and relish all sloshed together in a sort of horrific splash of colour, and all at once, inexplicably, I burst into tears. Mike is at my side in an instant, and Mom covers her alarm beautifully by telling Dad to distract Emily. Then she, too, is standing beside me, telling me it's all right, it's just the stress of the past couple days, and I'll be fine in the morning.

"I think maybe it's time for you to go lie down," she murmurs, patting my back and helping me up. "Would you like Michael to take you up? I'm sure he could watch William for you this evening; you need your sleep." In Mom's mind, nothing cures mental fatigue like physical rest.

Suddenly too devastatingly tired to even venture an opinion, I just nod, sniffle back a few remaining tears and lean blissfully on my husband as he helps me up the stairs. I change into a summer T shirt and crawl under the covers, which he folds down to rest on my feet, drawing just the lightest sheet up over me and pressing a gentle kiss on my cheek.

"I love you," he murmurs, and the relief that gives me is so intense that I start to cry all over again. "Sydney?" he sounds alarmed now, and it's all I can do to shake my head helplessly at him.

"I'm fine," I whisper, wiping fiercely at my face, "I am, I just . . . Mom's probably right, I'm just so tired I don't know what to do with myself. I'll get some sleep, I'll be fine . . . come get me if William goes through the milk I set aside this morning, alright? He'll need to eat, after all."

Mike nods, but his expression as he looks at me is so miserable that, as I drift off to sleep, I can't help but wonder what it is he sees.

0O0O0O0O0

I think I more than half expected that when I awoke, I would feel rested, refreshed, and ready to just get on with life. Unfortunately, it soon becomes clear that this won't be the case. As the next couple of weeks pass, I seem to be moving through them as if through a dense fog. Everyday tasks get harder and harder to complete until finally, one day near the end of June, when Mike is at school and William and Emily napping, I find myself wandering around in the backyard just trying to remember why I ended up there in the first place.

It's been getting hotter and hotter as we approach July, so I've been spending more and more time inside with the kids. William is markedly less fussy than Emily was at that age, but he still requires a certain amount of tending to so I usually try to focus on his needs rather than my own, which lately have started to confuse me more and more. Some days I'm thrilled with myself; every little accomplishment seems like an Olympic gold medal, and I can't wipe the grin off my face. Other days I can hardly convince myself not to break down in tears on the spot, whether I'm at home, out for a walk, or in the middle of the grocery store. All days, though, have me at such extremes that they drain me long before night rolls around, and I often fall asleep even before Emily, sleeping well into the next day.

I'm trying not to, but I have to admit, I'm getting scared.

Shivering even in the intense heat, I wrap my arms around myself and move further into the garden. The unseasonal temperatures have got the plants thoroughly confused, and some are blooming early while others are refusing to bud at all. The lilacs especially aren't behaving as usual and as a result are incredibly overpowering, their already heady fragrance now impossibly thick and sickly sweet on the air. I see they, too, have been thrown off by the balmy weather, and have already begun to rot on the bushes.

Something about the mouldering flowers matches my mood so perfectly it's more than vaguely unsettling. The purity of the creamy white buds is marred by the ugly brown spreading downward, and the bees are swarming them more fiercely than ever, determined to suck out the last drops of nectar that remain. Before I even realise what's happening, I'm bent over under the bushes, bringing my lunch up with a vengeance. The cloying scent of the blooms fills my head, and I feel it swimming as I bend down again, purging my stomach until my throat is raw, my senses reeling and my legs ready to give out from under me.

What I haven't wanted to admit until now is suddenly as unavoidable as the decay of the flowers all around me; something is very, very wrong.

0O0O0O0O0

Once I'm fairly certain I won't fall over, I make my shaky way back into the house, pour myself a glass of water and settle down at the kitchen island to think about what to do next. Should I call someone? Mike's at work, and he'd worry too much anyway, but maybe one of my parents? I turn the idea over carefully before finally rejecting it. My mother, supportive though she is, has always scorned mental weakness as a precursor to physical weakness, and is neither tolerant nor understanding of either one. My father, too, has been so strong all his life that, although he knows how to protect something that needs it, he would be confounded at the thought of something being wrong with me that he himself couldn't fix. None of my family, I'm sure, are ready to deal with this, at least not until I've looked into it myself.

My mind made up, I finish my water and retrieve the phone book. Flipping to the section for the nearest city, I look up free clinics. I want to find something clean, I decide, studying each ad with care, that is both respectable but has a policy dictating that they not ask too many questions; that's what I need right now.

I find it in the form of the Dieppe clinique de famille, and make a careful note of the number before putting the book away, and going to collect both of my napping angels.

Emily, as I could have predicted she would, stirs almost the second that I touch her and beams sleepily up at me, reaching upward with both arms. I smile, make nice noises and dress her in the lightest outfit I can find, topping her off with a hat before I go in to collect William, too.

A much sounder sleeper than his sister, my two week old son is dead to the world and doesn't stir the whole time I spend changing him and buckling them both into their seats in the car. Bottling some water for Emily and breast milk for William, I then lock up the house, tape a misleading note for Mike on the front door in the event he gets back before we do, and drive us all down the street to the phone booth on the next corner.

I turn the car off and the windows up to seal in every ounce of cool air manufactured by the air conditioner on the short trip down the street, and stand beside the booth so I can keep my babies in plain view while I make my call. My hands are shaking only slightly as I dial the number I memorised from the phone book, and a woman who seems awash with competence answers on the second ring.

"Clinique de famille, bonjour."

"Salut. Je m'appelle . . ." I hesitate only fractionally, "Marie LeBlanc. Est-ce qu'il y a un médecin anglais là-bas?"

"Non, madame, je regrette il n'y a pas."

"Du rien," I swallow, hoping that she won't become curious at my accent, which I know is definitely not Acadian, "il n'a pas d'importance. Est-ce que nécessaire de prendre rendez-vous?"

"Nous le conseillons la, madame."

"Il y a une ouverture dans une heure?"

"Il y a une ouverture dans quarante cinq minutes, madame, oui."

"Je le prendrai, merci. Eh . . . fera j'ai besoin de ma carte de Medicare?"

"Non, madame, cela ne sera pas nécessaire si vous payez un frais en argent comptant."

"Bien, merci." I hang up, my hands still shaking a little as I get back in the car, make some nice noises to my children and turn toward Dieppe.

The ride is a nightmare of magnificent proportions. Heat distorts the air above the road all the way to the exit, and I blast the air conditioning for the whole trip just to keep us from boiling. I turn on the radio, hoping to distract myself, but the news CBC offers is even gloomier than I am, and the weather forecast only informs me that our spike in temperature has been officially declared a heat wave, and the elderly and very young are especially recommended to remain indoors whenever possible.

"Lovely," I squint through the shimmering air above the highway, signal my turn and take my exit as Emily chatters softly to herself and William sleeps on. I shiver, even though it's still not that cold at all.

Will I never be normal?

0O0O0O0O0

The Dieppe clinique de famille is as I'd hoped it would be. It's bright, airy and clean, and although the waiting area is rather small, it manages not to feel too terribly cramped. I set William's baby seat (William still snoozing peacefully) at my feet, and rest Emily on my knee while taking a quick peek at my watch. I have a good ten minutes left to spare, and the knowledge affords me just enough relief to take the edge off the now-familiar tension I feel building within me.

Emily, blissfully unaware, focuses on my hands, playing a one-sided sort of pat-a-cake with me until the nurse looks up from behind her desk and asks for Marie LeBlanc. I get to my feet, juggle baby, toddler and purse, and hurry over to pay her the money she asks for. I know that the practice is not exactly aboveboard, but Medicare, free though it is, doesn't offer the same guarantee of anonymity that I'm looking for. I was fortunate to find the clinic, though; ever since all Moncton doctors agreed they would not perform any abortions not deemed medically necessary, I understand it's been much harder to find somewhere that doesn't require your Medicare.

Now Emily, William and I are all shown into a cubicle with a door on it that barely escapes the definition of a closet. I set Emily on the examining table and talk softly with her, more to calm myself than her, until the door opens and a nice, smiling young man walks in and, using the French version of Ms., asks me if I'm Madelle LeBlanc.

"Oui," I nod, "je suis Madame LeBlanc." I may not have been able to tell Mike I was coming, but if I have to take an assumed name then I figure he's definitely got the right to be my assumed husband.

The doctor introduces himself as Jean Potvin and then asks me what seems to be the problem. I swallow, embarrassed at how absurdly hard it is to say it out loud, especially when I'm not entirely sure myself.

"I'm having . . . problems," I speak carefully, startled to realise my French is rustier than I thought when I find myself translating the words in my head before I speak them. "For the past two weeks now, I've been . . . I've just been all wrong. I have trouble getting enough sleep, I have mood swings, I have stomach problems. I get . . . scared. Especially for my children," my hand strays to Emily's foot and I squeeze it gently. "I get scared something awful will happen to them. I'm not stupid; I did try to research some of this at the library. I looked up my symptoms, and know that parts of this sound like depression, but I can hardly think it of myself, especially when other parts of it just don't seem to fit." Tears are starting to come and it's all I can do to keep them under control as I blurt, "I'm just so tired of being like this! I want it to stop, but even more than that I just want to know what's wrong with me."

Dr. Potvin nods, and makes a few notes. He asks some questions that I hadn't already answered on the sheet they gave me to fill out in the waiting room, and when he's done he settles back against the door.

"From what I can see," he speaks so slowly and clearly that I have a sneaking suspicion my French has rusted enough to alert him that I'm not a native speaker, "although I would like to run a blood test to be able to rule other things out for sure, it's entirely probable you are suffering from postpartum depression. While I can't rule out a thyroid imbalance without a blood test, it seems far less likely, especially given that your symptoms began to manifest themselves just two days following the birth of your son."

I nod, numbed but somehow suddenly much warmer, as if the very defining of my problem has gone a long way toward curing it on its own. It's only with an effort that I can recall myself to the doctor, who is still talking, saying if I'm breast feeding he'd like me to stop so he can write me out a prescription for-

"No," I blurt out quickly, shaking my head, "no, thank you. I don't care to . . . to take anything, thanks. At least not right now. And I certainly don't want to stop breastfeeding. Thank you, though."

He looks like he doesn't want to let go of the drugs aspect without a fight, but I've already gathered up both my children and my purse and am heading for the door once more, so unless he gets right in my way there's no way he's going to slow me down. Realising this, he steps aside and lets me out, and I make it to the car with my arms full of kids and my head full of new information.

I'm not stupid, of course; I've heard about postpartum depression before. It had just never occurred to me that it was happening to me. Now it seems to make such sense that I think I must be stupid, not to have thought of it myself. Now, of course, the problem still remains-

"What," I wonder, looking at my children in the rear-view mirror, "are we gonna tell Daddy?"

Mercifully, Mike hasn't yet attributed my unusual behaviour to anything else but fatigue, but I'm not about to believe that will continue to be the case once his summer vacation begins. As soon as he finishes cleaning out his class and starts spending actual time at home, I'm going to have to be ready to face him, and since the best defence is a good offence . . . I spend the rest of the drive home speculating on ways I might bring it up.

Mike is still at the school when we get back, so I snatch my note off the door, get William arranged on a blanket and Emily settled in a playpen, and start to integrate plans for supper with plans for speaking to my husband. Tomorrow night Mom and Dad are bringing over steaks for barbecue, but tonight it's just going to be Mike and me, which is really just what I need if I'm going to have any hope of explaining things to him without having half a dozen interruptions before I'm through.

I hear the car pulling in just as I set the timer on a frozen casserole I pulled from the freezer to put in the oven, and, checking the time, am stunned to see it's almost five. Normally Mike is home by four at the latest, so I move a little faster than I usually do on my way to meet him at the door. When I step out onto the front porch and see the reason he is late, I roll my eyes and have to laugh.

"Mike that's the second one this year! Why on Earth-!"

He grins sheepishly at me, and hefts the armful of wiggling, wrinkly English bulldog puppy he's holding almost as if he's a six year old kid whose going to say it's really not his fault, the doggie followed him home.

"Rachel gave him to us," he mumbles. "Her parents breed them, and this guy got returned. Or so she says.She knew about Donovan, and I suspect she just felt so bad about it that she- well, anyway. I don't think she really thought about the fact that we have a new baby. I didn't like to say no, but if I take him back tomorrow and explain that it just won't work-"

I bite my lip, almost frantically amused at the sight of the fat little dog trying to eat my husband's shirt sleeve.

"No, no, it's fine. We- we'll just try it and see. If it's too much, then we'll tell her we're sorry." It takes me a minute to realise I'm trying to laugh and talk at the same time; once I do discover it, I stop talking and when I do, the laughter builds. It gets louder and giddier, more and more hysterical, until I don't even recognise the sound of my own laughing.

Next thing I know, there's a crack and a splitting pain across the side of my face. I reel and Mike catches me, his face as devastated as if I'd been the one who slapped him, and not the other way around. He holds me close, mashed in between his chest and the bulldog puppy, which chews affectionately on my hair until my husband asks, ever so softly, if I am okay to walk inside. Somehow I fumble a nod.

"I'm fine . . . I just . . . Mike, we really have to talk."

He makes me sit, first, and tries to force any number of hot beverages down my throat before I convince him that I don't need tea, I need to talk. Then we do; I start with my experiences of the past couple weeks, careful to avoid describing the worst moments, when I had sometimes contemplated packing up and leaving altogether. I wind up with the incidents of today, followed by my trip to the doctor's office, and then sit back, exhausted, drained and just wanting it to be over. Mike is sitting, stunned, trying to take it all in. I wait. Francie comes in to meet the puppy. The puppy snaps at her. Francie swats the puppy and heads for the top of the fridge. The puppy pees on the floor. I clean it up, take him out, come back, and Mike finally manages to speak.

"Sydney . . . why didn't you tell me?"

"Because," I swallow, "I didn't want to worry you. Plus, I wasn't sure there was really anything to worry about. I mean, for all I knew, I was just really tired. That's what Mom thought it was . . ."

"Sydney, your mother is an amazing woman, but she borders on the superhuman! She's going to have a tougher time understanding anything beyond a little wear and tear, but if you're having problems like this-" he breaks off and holds me against him, swallowing hard. "Sydney . . . you have to tell me these things. If things get this bad . . . I'm your partner. I love you. I'm here to help. And I'm going to. We're going to start tonight." He kisses me gently; firmly. "I'm calling Geoff."

Worn out as I am, it takes me a minute to realise which Geoff he means. A friend of ours does family counselling at a centre in Moncton, but he's made it known that he will take extreme cases at his house after hours if need be. So I give William his evening meal while ours cooks to a crisp, and Mike gets on the phone with Geoff, who agrees to see me right away, if I don't mind that the house is a bit of a mess.

I don't.

We all go, in the end; kids, puppy, Mike and me, because canine or human, you just can't leave infants unattended for indeterminate periods of time. William and the puppy nod off on the way over, but Emily is still awake and watches both with great fascination.

"Daw-ee!" she giggles at several intervals, and after Mike and I try a few times to explain to her that it's not really Donnie, but fail to come up with a plausible name for our new pet (Edgar? Too grouchy. Charlie? Too many people we already know. Curly? Spots? Wrinkles? All too nauseatingly cute) we give up, and decide that for however long the little guy stays with us, he'll be Donnie.

We reach the well-lit house not five minutes later, and Mike carries both Emily and the puppy in while I cuddle William up to the door. Geoff greets us surrounded by his family, and his oldest daughter promptly claims Emily as her very own friend for the evening. His son and younger daughter steal little Donnie, and his wife offers to take William if I want Mike to join me for the first session. I decide I could use the support, so, suddenly stripped of our children and pet, Mike and I find ourselves settling into a deep, squishy leather sofa in Geoff's study. He takes the seat across from us, and smiles with such an easy familiarity that I can't take it anymore, and break down all over again.

Both of them let me cry, Mike rubbing my back reassuringly and Geoff sitting there in silence that somehow does not connote expectation of progress, but rather just satisfaction that I've come as far as I have. It's this lack of pressure that lets me sit up a bit straighter once I'm done crying, and face the both of them.

"Sydney," Geoff's smile is even gentler than before, and somehow he manages to convey the impression that I've given him something he was looking for, "are you ready to start?"

I waver for only a minute; then Mike grips my hand and smiles at me, and I know that whatever we've got bearing down on us, whether from without or within, it's not going to be anything that isn't worth fighting through.

"Yeah," I decide, and sit up a bit straighter. "Yeah, I think I am."

0O0O0O0O0

0O0O0O0O0

Not only was this written quite some time ago (almost a year now) and I just forgot to post it here, but to be perfectly honest,it didn't end the way I had planned it. I had wanted something more concrete in the way of a resolution, but once I wrote that final line I realised that it was far more realistic than what I was initially aiming for. When it comes to depression there's no real timeline; for some people it's only temporary, while for others it can last much longer. The real ending comes in sight when you face it head on and decide you're going to deal with it, and for my purposes, that's what Sydney has done and that's where I've left her.

I would also like to say that this story is dedicated with love and appreciation to my aunt, who successfully dealt with postpartum depression seven years ago and says she now appreciates her precious little girl all the more. As Cicero said- 'nor again is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain, but because occasionally circumstances occur in which toil and pain can procure him some great pleasure.' Children - family members of all types - if anything, are worth that pain, and I like to think Sydney has now realised that too.

Also, of course, Alias is not and never will be mine. I just take merciless liberties with the characters featured therein.

Finally, for those interested, here's an approximate translation of the convo Sydney had over the phone with the nurse at the clinic. Bear in mind my French is even rustier than hers!

O0O

_"Family clinic, good day."_

_"Hello. My name is Marie LeBlanc. Is there an English doctor there?"_

_"No Ma'am, I'm sorry, there's not."_

_"It's nothing/forget it, it's not important. Is it necessary to make an appointment?"_

_"We advise it, Ma'am."_

_"Is there an opening in one hour?"_

_"Yes, we have an opening in forty-five minutes, Ma'am."_

_"I'll take it, thank you. Will I need my Medicare card?"_

_"No Ma'am, that won't be necessary if you pay a cash fee."_

_"Good, thank you."_


End file.
